he cut my wings
by snitchesgetstitchesbitches
Summary: The story begins when the tarantula falls madly in love with the songbird. [DARK. WARNINGS INSIDE]


**_So I'm a terrible person and no one can stop me from writing trash 3_**

 ** _Warnings: non consensual everything, dubious consent at times, unhealthy everything, sexual harassment, slight voyeurism, exhibitionism because Ardyn is an asshole, some murder and I guess that's pretty much it._**

* * *

"This shall be Noct's welcoming gift once he returns. He will be the epitome of delighted, I'm sure."

The man whispers, his breath harasses the shell of the young man's ear. If he had done this the first few days, if this had happened back when it started he is sure he would have fought. He would have found a way to rebel, not surrender to his foul words and ill meaning intentions. He would have hit him, he would have tried to summon his gun.

That is a creature of the past.

Now, in this moment, he just sits there on his lap, sits unmoving looking pretty and dead as a doll, allows the man's hands to wander across his chest, lets them settle on his hips, slide up his arms and rest around his neck. His fingers, harmless as they seem right now, are a constant reminder of the man's ownership. How many times had those fingers bruised him, how many times had they squeezed the breath out of him, how many times had they ventured to places in his body the man had no business touching? The lines are blurry, the memories a foggy dream. No longer can he remember with clarity the countless times this man has destroyed him and rebuilt him for his own satisfaction.

The thighs encasing him on the throne, they would touch the skin of his legs obscenely if it wasn't for the flimsy material of the translucent robe he was gifted a month ago, the thing that does nothing, however, for his bare arms and back. He gets goose bumps every time he feels Ardyn's chest press tightly to his back, every time he feels his hair, or scarf or mouth tickle his shoulder blades. He recoils in disgust no longer, though, when the monster peppers his jaw with wet kisses. He has trained himself not to react. By now, he considers it a normal occurrence; these sudden, spontaneous bursts of affection that unsettle him more than the random violent actions do.

One of the hands on his neck drifts to the open collar of his robe, slips inside. Teases his hardening nipple due to the cold, squeezes it harshly between two fingers, pushes and scratches at it with his nails. The other hand also stops its previous ministrations and descends purposefully to his right upper thigh; his thumb falls too close to his pelvic bone.

Prompto doesn't flinch. Not anymore. He adjusts his position on top of Ardyn's legs and lets his head fall back to be supported by the man's shoulder. He doesn't need to turn around to see the full toothed smile; he can sense it like the shadows thickening outside the palace. Prompto's willingness to surrender, to depend on him, to initiate contact first, pleases him immensely.

"Ah," he sighs, nuzzles Prompto's hair "You never fail to get me in a mood. I believe it would be lovely if I took you on the throne today. Later, of course. What do you think, _love_?" He says this, completely nonchalant as if he just commented on the weather, completely uncaring of the fact that they're not alone in the throne room and Prompto hates him with a passion for it. "Would you want me to _make love to you_ right here, _sweetheart_?"

He doesn't know what offends him the most, the fact that he dared to call the ruthless fucking he imposed on him from day one 'love making' or the use of abhorrent, mocking pet names that he might not have minded in normal circumstances if employed by someone he actually held feelings for (Noctis) but when they come out of his mouth, when used by him they turn into revolting, meaningless compositions of letters.

However, he voices none of these thoughts. He is aware of what will await him if he does. So he only answers "Does it matter? You'll fuck me anywhere you want at anytime you want, anyway."

He gets slapped 'playfully' on the rump for his comment. He has to bite his tongue to keep in the yelp that tried to escape him. Son of a bitch has a ridiculously heavy hand. "Language, Prompto" Ardyn admonishes lightly, as if he actually cares about Prompto's vocabulary which is, by the way, total bullshit.

"But you are fairly right. Indeed, I'll do whatever I want to my boy, won't I?" And without hesitation, the hand on his thigh moves to the opening of his robe. The touch is sinful, longingly dark, direct contact of skin on skin because he has stopped wearing underwear-he doesn't need it, not when Ardyn manifests his desires at any given time of the day, as often as humanly possible- and this time Prompto can't hold back a shiver. He almost jumps when he feels those fingers that have debauched him on numerous occasions massage his perineum, tantalizingly slow, poisonous and toxic. He swallows the excess of saliva in his mouth, relaxes alarmingly fast-Astrals, it feels too good, too gentle, too surreal.

Prompto finally raises his gaze and focuses on the other occupant of the throne room whom he has ignored from the moment the unknown person stepped inside the grand room. While most of him is numb at this point, there is some small part of him where shame and guilt continue to linger and disquiet him. There is a part of him that trembles still in disgust at what this stranger must think of him. He knows what he must look like, the meaning clear in the way Ardyn has chosen to display him today. A young blonde man scarcely dressed, sitting on his lap, letting himself be touched and fondled. Ardyn's personal sex slave, his toy, his possession. _His boy,_ like the man loves to remind him whenever he takes him (which, again, is disturbingly often). _His and only his._

Or worse. That new endearment and title that makes Prompto's stomach turn inside out.

 _My husband,_ Ardyn had said one wretched day last year. _My husband,_ he had whispered sickeningly endeared as he pushed inside his pliant body beneath him _. My husband,_ he had ascertained as he held Prompto's left hand in a vice like grip and slipped an extremely luxurious ring on his ring finger. The ring he is currently wearing that weights more than the barcode on his wrist ever did, the ring he can never take off or else risk facing the profound abyss of Ardyn's anger. The ring that has marked him since last year as Ardyn Izunia's _Prince Consort._

He didn't even know that was a thing. He would like to think Noctis would have told him of something like that if it existed.

He sinks his teeth on his lower lip to muffle a moan when the invading fingers get too close to his balls. Ardyn takes him by his left wrist and brings Prompto's hand to his face so he can burn kisses on the back of it, lavish the one phalange that wears his ring; it's both possessive and humiliating and how is it possible that Prompto wants to either cum or die?

Meanwhile, the stranger shifts clearly uncomfortable where he stands and fails to look at anywhere else on the throne room that is not the eerie and uncanny erotic scene taking place in front of him. He is a young man-can't be any older than Prompto-dressed in rags, smudges of dirt and grease are smeared on the bridge of his nose, the inside of his elbows and cheeks. In his right hand a backpack that has probably seen better days hangs limply, defeated like his owner. Next to where this man stands, there is a stool and there is an easel and-

Ah. Alright.

He almost forgot about it.

Yes, **this** is why this guy was let inside in the first place. Why he hasn't been murdered yet. _A welcoming gift_ _for Noct_ Ardyn said, has said during the past couple of weeks nonstop. At every chance he got he would brag to Prompto about how nice it would be if they had a painting made for them, _of them together,_ how wonderful it would be to hang it on the main hall alongside the previous rulers that adorned the walls of the palace. _That person would love it_ , Ardyn said, _to be greeted by the sight of the rightful King and his beautiful, beautiful Queen._

Prompto hadn't paid much attention to him, then. Falling second to fucking him, Ardyn loved messing with his mind the most so he figured this was one of his many attempts at rattling him. If he could, if the opportunity presented itself, he would demonize his and _that person's_ relationship as much as he could, poison their interactions, their conversations with his sharp tongue and sarcastic remarks. He tried his best to distort that pure image Prompto held closest to his heart. There was only one place, only one exception however, where Ardyn abhorred the idea of bringing **him** up-he loathed, hated the mere thought of **him** during his intimate moments with the blond. When he had Ardyn between his legs or when the man did anything of sexual nature, Prompto knew better than to mention **_him._** Even now, he still feels in his very bones the pounding he received after **_that name_** fell off his lips in one of their early encounters, as Prompto tried to dissociate and pretend it was other person the one doing him; for that little mishap Ardyn locked him in his room for two weeks, tied his limps to the bed posts and merely visited Prompto to fuck him into submission, until he could no longer discern what was real and all he could focus on was the being above him murmuring rotten promises to his abused skin.

He should have paid attention, is what he thinks in this moment with Ardyn's hand sliding up and down his length and the young man staring intensely at the polished floor. The dirty, ruffled young man that is meant to _'immortalize our union, sweetest thing'._

In a way, Prompto pities him. He also envies him. He feels pity because while he himself resides in hell, compared to this man he possesses at least some benefits denied to whatever is left of humanity; albeit he had to sell his body and soul to the devil incarnated in order to obtain those benefits but he has them nonetheless. He doesn't have to scavenge to survive, he doesn't have to fight hordes of demons in order to last for another day, he doesn't lack nourishment or basic necessities, he doesn't have to worry about hunting to either make a living or feed himself. He hasn't even set one foot outside the Citadel since he was brought in against his will. Unlike this young man, he is not being forced to work for the monster that brought the world to its knees just so he can obtain whatever he might need to support himself (maybe support his family or his friends too if he still has them).

He would call himself lucky if it wasn't for the fact that he possesses no kind of freedom, he has to cater to the monster's every capricious whim, has to spread his legs when he's commanded to, has to endure being daily humiliated and treated like a possession, like his property. He's condemned to roam long empty hallways with Ardyn as his sole company, unable to even look outside the windows to the new world beyond his reach. He envies this guy because has to have people waiting for him, that care for him. He envies him because he can walk away after his job is done, can walk through those gates and never look back.

"Well, do you plan to just stand there gawking or are you actually going to try and earn the supplies you claimed you needed?" Prompto squirms. After all these years, he can't simply get used to the sound of his voice so close to his ear, of the way it reverberates in the room and carries his command to anyone in hearing range.

Ardyn's attention is centered on the unknown guy now and he hasn't stopped masturbating Prompto the whole time the guy has been there. This is mortifying and if Prompto were the man he had been five years ago, he would have cried out of sheer embarrassment.

But he doesn't. He stares and prays this man doesn't mess up or else.

The man rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, does not look up from the floor. He licks his lips and raises his voice "Sir-No, Your Majesty-excuse me- I thought… I believed you said you wanted a portrait of you and your husband-"

Ardyn abruptly interrupts him before he's finished; the hand around Prompto's dick ceases its movements. "My apologies, for an instant I entirely forgot about the little predicament we found ourselves in, right _darling_?" Prompto can't even answer because he continues talking "I admit sometimes I let myself get carried away by this one" He smacks a damp kiss on his boy's nape and adds "This is hardly an appropriate pose for a portrait".

Neither Prompto nor the artist say anything to that. The gunman's mind is reeling, not able to process that the actual words 'your husband', as a reference to himself, were used by another breathing human being. He can't get over it; he has been recognized as Ardyn's husband out loud by somebody who is not the man in question. _It's real. It's real. It's real. It's real._

Caught in his inner conflict, he doesn't notice Ardyn exclaiming joyfully "Up you go, _my princess_ " and suddenly he's being hauled up out of Ardyn's lap and lowered gently on the empty throne to his right. The throne meant for the queen. He falls onto it, robe wide open and hair disheveled and all he can do is throw a murderous glance in Ardyn's direction who smiles back at him in amusement, crinkles by the corners of his eyes. He knows how much Prompto hates being manhandled so he has assigned the duty upon himself to upset Prompto by doing exactly that which he hates on a regular basis.

Ardyn smiles widely, keeps his amber irises on the boy sitting at his side, where he belongs. "Now that I think about it, perhaps, one could argue that portraits and photography are somewhat related to each other. _You_ should know better than anyone, _love"_ he murmurs, husky and dark and low enough for the man below to not hear a word of the exchange.

He can't help it. He frowns, feels heat crawl to his face with a surge of strength and a vein by his forehead throb painfully. This is immature, even for him. He's obviously seeking to get a rise out of him mentioning that activity that Prompto used to feel so passionate about when the sun still shone bright in the sky. He decides to not dignify that taunt with a response of his own and he just rolls his eyes, ignores him, looks down again to meet the green eyed stare of the artist.

And the small hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. A familiar prickle catches up to him, the kind of prickle he only feels when he's being shamelessly eyeballed. The way the newcomer is presently eyeballing him.

He knows, he is terribly aware of what he must look like in this instant. How he must look like. The impression he has to give to anyone who lays eyes on him. His flushed face from stimulation, his full wet lips courtesy of his tongue that coats them now and then with a new layer of saliva, his feverish orbs, his mussed up blonde hair because of Ardyn's incessant petting, because of his fingers pulling and caressing his hair. His see-through robe, the hard nipples peeking in behind the curtain of red translucent fabric, the clear sight of his semi hard on and the long mile of bare leg that shows through the opening of the robe. He is not precisely… family friendly looking right now.

( _My sin,_ Ardyn even would call him this later, sucking at his collarbones, Prompto sitting askew on top of him, _my light, my very own demon of desire,_ he would bite this on his sternum, removing slowly the thin robe that at that point would be hanging off the boy's shoulders, _Has anyone ever wanted as much as I want you?_ , he would wonder, holding him by his bony hips as Prompto sinks himself further in him, his neck and spine arched perfectly,

 _You were made for me,_ he would state as he fills Prompto's insides to the brim with his seed.)

He knows all this and that is why, honestly, he can't blame the artist for what he does. Can't blame him when he finally gathers his courage to raise his eyes from the floor and the first thing he does is get a proper look at him. His stare zeroes in instantly on the pretty picture Prompto must be making, attracted like a moth to a flame. He gazes at him hungrily, wide eyed, encompassing, as if he has regressed to the thirteen year old boy he was long ago and it's the first time he's looking at a porn magazine. The bag in his grasp falls to the ground, forgotten. His tanned skin gains a rosy hue, taking in Prompto's figure laid deliciously bared on the throne. He doesn't even have the hindsight to hide his unabashed and unapologetic lust.

That is his mistake.

The last one he will ever make.

Because Prompto also knows, has learned through experience and has stored this little piece of information that is vital and essential: Ardyn is not just unhealthily obsessed with him, he's insanely possessive of him as well. Which has resulted in the losses of many, many, many human lives. And this case, he knows, will be no exception.

He cowers, folds himself slightly when he feels a heavy aura substitute the previous atmosphere in the room. He can feel what is about to happen, can taste it at the back of his throat like bilis begging to be released. Ardyn smirks and it's _worse worse worse._

"He is ridiculously gorgeous, is he not? A fine work of art, this husband of mine. Pretty, pretty boy with his high cheekbones, that sea of freckles and those cock sucking lips. You should see him when he smiles-he's even prettier then. The sun pales in comparison to Prompto Argentum in his prime"

Ardyn is mad. Terribly so. He can tell insofar as the man grabbed him in a crushing grip by his jaw-turning his face away from the man underneath- the moment he started to speak and Prompto fears briefly for his safety. Fears those fingers applying more pressure than necessary and _SNAP._ Goodbye to his jaw. It certainly wouldn't be the last time he has been hurt for things beyond his control.

"Even I find it hard to refrain from certain impulses when I'm around him" he concedes softly, tracing with his thumb the outline of the blond's bottom lip. Prompto is scared, so, so scared and he swallows his shrieks and his screams and his dangerous need to pull away. 'Therefore I can perfectly understand why anyone would be enamored with him. Why would anyone be bold enough to admire someone else's property with no shame whatsoever…"

He pauses, lets the words sink in. His fingers stray from Prompto's face, return to the armrest where he taps a sick rhythm while the young artist trembles and his eyes water. All Prompto can hear, all he can focus on are the monsters strolling outside, the sound of a pair of feet and a sword being dragged across the floor too close for comfort.

"…That does not mean that I have to tolerate it." Ardyn finishes his line of thought calmly, but Prompto knows better, knows enough to read the death sentence camouflaged in it.

He closes his eyes, forces the world to fade away just in time to not have to see when the door opens with a noise that reminds him too much of things he should not think about, when the Yojimbo invites itself in and quickly, deadly, slashes with his sword at the frozen artist. Although he doesn't keep his eyes closed long enough to avoid seeing the mess that was left and his lungs squeeze painfully when he meets the very dead body of the young man. The Yojimbo that stands holding his sword masked in red literally cut the man in half. Parts of his gastric system are splattered on the floor, along with bits of his brain and blood. Too much blood. The rest of his organs have somehow managed to stay glued to its respective sides.

He covers his mouth in horror and to maintain his lunch down his pharynx, he is shaking, he is trembling, he is crying mutely and he is in so much pain. He should be used to these displays by now, he should be stronger than this but he can't stop his suffering if every time this happens he immediately pictures what he will do to the person that is bound to arrive. His savior, the boy in the playground who grabbed his hand. If he loses his mind when people check him out, then what will he do to the one that Prompto cherishes the most-

Ardyn throws a possessive arm around Prompto's shoulders, grinning madly at him and so obviously satisfied by the show of violence "What a shame, it seems that we will have to wait longer for that portrait of ours. I am confident, though, that we will find the right person in the right time".

He licks each and every one of Prompto's tears in relish and consumes every sob and every cry directly off his mouth.

"So don't cry anymore, dearest. One way or another, Noctis _will have_ his gift when the moment comes".

 **"So don't cry anymore, songbird".**

 **"Not for him".**

* * *

The story begins when the tarantula sees the songbird for the first time.

It has lived and seen many things through the unforgiving years but it has never seen anything quite like this small, lithe bird that sings so obnoxiously but so beautifully. This lithe bird whose feathers shine healthy and brightly underneath the sun, whose peak is always ready to sing, this lithe bird that is dedicated completely to the raven it accompanies. The bird that despite its small size tries its best to carry the burden that is the raven.

The tarantula finds itself curious. The tarantula finds itself wanting to destroy such a strange animal. Its attention is peeked, however it doesn't do more than watch because as alluring as the tiny bird might be, its real target is the raven that it hates with every fiber of its being.

He watches them closely. Follows the movements of the raven, the porcupine, the otter and the songbird.

His hate for the raven grows the more he sees the songbird's devotion to it. Because the tarantula suddenly yearns for everything that the songbird is. Watching it was a grave error, he thought he was unknowable, unmovable but sometimes the tarantula stops in its tracks and stares in awe at the charming, depressed, sad, blue, laidback, happy go lucky bird. And it hates this unexpected feeling of wanting, needing another when he has never yearned for anything.

The story begins when the tarantula falls madly in love with the songbird.

But his heart has become so dark and twisted, it doesn't want to recognize this weakness inside him, this weakness that could mean the end of everything. The tarantula has not loved any other animal before, and certainly not in this way so he ignores the trials and turns of love, doesn't know that he does not have a choice, doesn't know that this new emotion will only fester the more he lets it be, the more he allows it to develop. Like a terminal illness, he can't get rid of what he feels for the songbird.

The story begins when the tarantula decides to take what belongs to him.

Its world shook to the seams when one day he caught the raven and the songbird in the middle of passionate mating. This was not allowed, this he would not forgive, this would not happen again. The tarantula seethed, trashed, cursed and hated. The songbird was too precious, too beautiful, too _his_ to be touched by the dirty feathers of the raven. He tainted his songbird and he would pay the price.

The story begins when the tarantula has the bird in his grasp, underneath the cage of his eight limbs.

He had been reckless. This detour had not been part of the plan at all. He spent days convincing himself that he only did it in order to get the raven where he wanted it to be. But deep inside him, he knew the truth. He knew what he wanted and how to get it.

The tarantula whispered wicked things, created cracks where there weren't any in the pillar of the songbird's senseless relationship with the raven.

"Why would he come for you?" the tarantula had said sweetly. "Why do you bother to wish for him?"

"Because I love him" the songbird had answered with his adorable tune "Because he believed in me when nobody else did".

The tarantula raged and spewed venom, jealous to its core "He will never have you. Your story was never meant to be. **The story, my delectable little songbird, is yours and mine** ".

The story begins when the raven disappears finally, when the otter and the porcupine attack the tarantula to no avail, when they try to stop him from taking the songbird with it.

The story begins when the tarantula looks at the songbird and makes a choice, knowing that if given the slight chance the little bird would fly away. The story begins when the tarantula sinks its fangs into the bird, not to inject venom but to tear apart its wings, knowing that a bird with no wings will lose its want for freedom. The tarantula rips the wings, severs them from the thin songbird's torso, gives birth to a pile of blood and feathers as the little bird emits noises similar to those of a creature drowning and he is sated, satisfied in the knowledge that the songbird will never leave him. That now the songbird is truly his.

And the story begins.

* * *

He stands in front of the mirror in (Noctis's bedroom) their bedroom, naked as the day he was born.

He examines himself, starts from his dainty toes and finishes when he gets to his vacant eyes. This person looking at him from the reflective surface is not someone he recognizes. He has become thinner, his cheeks are a tad hollowed, his eyes look bigger-ready to pop out of their sockets-, the bones in his black and blue hips protrude exaggeratedly and so do his ribs, his bitten collarbones.

He is a polka dot dress-his skin that is the fabric is adorned masterfully with blotches of colors, with sewing lines. Near his belly button there is a wide and long smile, he recalls perfectly still how and why he got it.

 _("No" he sobbed, he cried. His feet were leads as he backed away from the furious beast disguised in a human shell._

 _The door hung by its hinges, nothing stood in the man's way to reach his objective._

 _His dress was in shambles, it hanged off his frame in tethers and Gods, he was practically standing unarmored in the middle of a battle he knew he could not win. He cursed himself for even conceiving the idea of escaping Ardyn's grasp, for even thinking he could ever be free. He wasn't strong enough, he wasn't smart enough, he wasn't quick enough…_

 _He was nothing. Really._

 _Stupid._

 _Stupid boy._

 _Why did you even try?_

 _Ardyn grabbed him by his left bicep, pulled the smaller man towards him with so much strength that Prompto felt too vividly the instant his arm dislocated. His mouth opened in a silent scream, a sound that begged to be heard but died in this new dawn of monsters and darkness and Ardyn Izunia. Then there was a hand closing around his throat, raising him off the ground. He kicked at empty air, he flailed and sank his nails where gloves and sleeves did not cover Ardyn's wrist in pure desperation. He couldn't breathe and the beast was slowly showing its true colors, revealing his unnatural white skin and the black veins that surely carried just as black liquid._

 _"I feed you" Ardyn seethed, hissed. He sounded like the daemons roaming in the abandoned streets of Insomnia. He sounded like a Naga he once faced a lifetime ago. "I take care of you, I provide you with a roof, with a room, with your own wardrobe. I let you live when I could have left you for dead along with the rest of your pathetic friends. I treat you as if you were my King. I bother to look after you and your needs. I give you everything you could possibly want and this is how you repay me, ungrateful whore? This is how you choose to express your gratitude? By stabbing me in the back after everything I've done for you? You readily open your legs for me and the moment I let my guard down, that I allow you the privilege of my trust, you-" Prompto is heaving and for a second the mad beating of his heart drowns out Ardyn's irate rambling "Foolish, foolish choice Prompto."_

 _He felt first Ardyn's lips devour his in a searing kiss while he crushed his windpipe. What came second was a feeling similar to that of cutting through butter with a knife, with the slight exception that he was the butter and Oh. His insides burned._

 _Oh._

 _Ardyn had actually pierced his navel using a knife (how had he not seen it?)._

 _Prompto's yell was swallowed by the monster's greedy tongue and teeth that tore at his lips, at the same time he twisted the knife a bit to the side and the boy saw stars behind his eyes, saw his entire life flash before him. Ardyn pulled the knife after a century of pain, loosened his hold on the blond's neck and as he did, Prompto thought his guts, his organs, everything contained by the recipient of his body was being spilled on the ground. He could actually hear the blood pooling at his and Ardyn's feet. From the waist down, he was covered in dark red. Drip by drip he wasted like a forgotten drink that the Chancellor seemed intent to consume through the abuse of his mouth._

 _Against his wordless, bloodless, unmoving mouth the man graved the words "You decided to act on stupidity for the last time, Prompto Argentum. Your life belongs to me. You belong to me. Understand that already, my one and only, you are not permitted to leave me. Only I can free you, only I get a say on how your miserable life ends"._

 _He buried his claws in the wound he inflicted and Prompto_

 _d._ )

On his hips, on his thighs, on his upper arms, on his ankles, on his wrists, chains of purple and blue finger shaped bruises. On his right pec, shoulder and neck there are gruesome bite marks, the proof of _his_ alleged devotion. Some of them still ooze blood if he moves too much. His right cheek is swollen and his superior lip is split, those two are the result of a misaimed comment that flew right by Ardyn's head. His V-line has been conquered by hickeys, and his collarbone area, his chest and stomach are a mine of dots that were either made with licks and suctioning lips or thanks to kicks and punches and slaps.

Ownership. Ownership. It all comes down to the ownership the man exerts over him.

(The golden band on his finger, the big stone incrusted in it and the phrase engraved in elaborate cursive on the inside: **my insatiable hunger.**

Ownership.)

 _"I love the way your flesh bends so easily to my will. The way it knows it was meant to be owned and marked_ _ **by me**_ _"_ The usurper King had said the first year after the darkness engulfed Eos. He had told him this the first night after being kidnapped, had restrained Prompto in the throne room, had beaten the living daylights out of him and had at last claimed him on what should have been other's Noctis's intended throne. He was able to remember the taste of tears, salt, iron and Ardyn's particular brand (because he had face fucked Prompto too) of musk, he was able to remember the blinding pain on his sides because the fucker had managed to break five ribs, he was able to remember many things from that night. Especially what happened when after satisfying his own needs, Ardyn dragged his delirious body throughout the floors and hallways of the palace to the place that would become their room, made him stand in front of the mirror very much like he is doing right now and told him those twisted lines that have plagued his mind since then.

Five years later and here he is.

Here he is, trying to gauge his appearance. Trying to compare it to someone who once was.

Not knowing whether the owned man in the mirror (the one with no wings) is less broken than the boy who confessed his insecurities to a prince on the rooftop of a cheap motel (the one who had wings but didn't know he had them until it was too late).


End file.
